The Case of Mistaken Identity, Chapter Two; The Locked Shop

We arrived at our destination twenty minutes later to find half of the street cordoned off by the Met. As Sherlock jumped out of the cab before it had even stopped, I gave the cabby his fare quickly before I got out and followed Sherlock towards Sergeant Sally Donovan, who looked at my friend with a very sour expression on her face.

"Hat-man and Robin have finally arrived, sir." Donovan said into her walkie-talkie.

"Bring them in Donovan – Oh, and try to be nice!" I heard Lestrade answer and I smiled at her loathsome expression.

"Good morning, Sally!" Sherlock said cheerfully, having obviously heard Lestrade's comment over the radio.

"We really don't need you here, freak." She said to him curtly.

"Then why did I get an invite?" Sherlock asked her in mock confusion. "Although I am sure that you and Anderson think that you can handle all of the crime scenes that you ever come across considering all the late nights that you spend together, DI Lestrade obviously thinks otherwise. Speaking of the late nights, has Anderson's wife caught on yet?"

"Just go through," Donovan snapped angrily and Sherlock grinned and held the crime scene tape up for the both of us to walk under.

"Talk soon, Sally," Sherlock said lightly, giving her a wave before we walked towards the building that was at the centre of all the police cars.

"You enjoy that, don't you?" I asked him, smiling crookedly. "Tormenting her, I mean."

Sherlock gave me a quick smile and I laughed at him, shaking my head. Just ahead of us, Lestrade walked out onto the footpath, looking around to see us approaching and giving a small smile.

"Good, you've made it." He said and I picked up on a bit of relief in his voice. "So the story so far is –"

"No information, please Lestrade." Sherlock said firmly as he bent over to look very closely at the ground in front of us with his small magnifying glass.

Lestrade looked to me and I gave him a slight smile before I too had a quick look at our surroundings. We stood in front of a long building which spanned almost half the street. It looked as though it were an old building, which wasn't unexpected for this part of London. Along the street level was mostly cafés more than anything else, as well as a real estate agent, a small picture gallery and one of those tourist shops that sold London bags and key chains and the likes up the other end of the street. Directly in front of us though was what looked like a small, independent food store that had a very old sign reading 'grocer' above the door. I looked up above the weathered sign to see three more levels above us, where presumably the owners of the shops either lived or rented out the space.

"Here," Lestrade said, handing me one of the blue forensic suits before shooting Sherlock a quick, hopeful glance.

"Not a chance," I said quietly, pulling on the blue suit over the top of my clothes and took two hairnet-like-devices that covered my shoes from out of the car boot behind me.

Lestrade gave a reluctant nod of acceptance while watching Sherlock, then after a few moments, he waved me inside. I followed him in silence through the front door, which had a bell above it to announce our presence and I felt Sherlock close behind me. Lestrade moved to the side and Sherlock moved in front of me, his keen eyes passing over practically everything.

To my right beside Lestrade was the front counter upon which sat the cash register and an assortment of cheap lollies and chocolates. The till was open and empty, but to me it didn't seem as though it had been forced. To my left was shelves filled with chip packets, biscuits and more lollies that looked as though someone had searched through them and the whole room was incredibly dark, and even with the lights on Sherlock had retrieved his torch from his jacket.

"Where is the body?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"On the other side of the shelf in the corner." directed Lestrade and Sherlock and I walked to the end of the shelving and turned left to find Anderson photographing an Indian man who was in a bad way. He had dark bruises all over the exposed parts of his body and blood covering most of his clothes. He was lying flat on his back and his eyes were half open, probably due to the fact that they were swollen.

"Bloody hell," I whispered as Anderson turned around from the body to look up to us.

"I have this scene perfectly under control, thank you very much!" he complained loudly as he got angrily to his feet.

"Shut up and stop whining, Anderson." Sherlock snapped, moving a few steps closer to the body before he knelt beside the poor sod. "What do you think, John?"

I moved to where Anderson had been moments before and looked over the body. Now that I was much closer to the victim, I could see the true extent of his wounds. He had undoubtedly been beaten over a decent length of time and what I could see it wasn't just on his face. Blood stained the man's white shirt that was consistent with it soaking through so I assumed that he had wounds on his chest and abdomen. There were abrasions on the man's forearms and the back of his hands which I thought could've been defensive wounds. The wounds on his head were probably the worst that I could see; He had a broken nose and jaw, possible fractures of his cheek bones and most of the skull, but that wasn't what would have killed him. On his leg I saw a slit in the man's trousers, so very delicately I lifted the blood-soaked trouser leg and saw an extremely deep incision on the inside of his leg.

"Well," Sherlock pressed and I looked across to him.

"I would estimate time-of-death at around three o'clock this morning perhaps." I told him after glancing down to my watch.

"Three-thirty," Anderson said promptly. "That's what our medical examiner said."

"Good for him," Sherlock said impatiently. "What else?" he added to me.

"These wounds were inflicted over a couple of hours at least."

"How can you tell?" Lestrade asked me.

"Because your victim's got bruising and swelling, this is part of the healing process when you are alive." I explained. "There are distinct differences between these and post mortem bruising."

Lestrade gave me a quick nod before Sherlock pressed me further.

"Anything more?" he said.

"Broken nose, fractured skull, defence wounds on his hands and forearms." I told him, my eyes passing over the dead man again. "Cause of death I would assume to be the incision on the left leg, and judging by all of the blood, the murderer got the femoral artery."

"A very apt conclusion, John," Sherlock said approvingly.

"Really?" I asked, raising my eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh yes," he smiled. "Although you missed everything that could lead us to the killer, but seeing as you are a medical man, your conclusions were fine."

"I sighed, shaking my head as I got back to my feet. "What did I miss then?" I asked slowly with a tired voice.

"I'm glad you asked," he said happily to me with another smile.

"Of course you are," I said dully.

"All of your conclusions were correct, John; cause of death was certainly the incision on his left leg which in itself means that the killer has some notion of anatomy or – by the standards of today, watches any number of the terrible crime drama's on television these days. Our victim has obviously had to endure at least three hours of being beaten by a single person and the majority was not done here, but somewhere else."

"Not here?" asked Lestrade quickly with a frown.

"Mmm," Sherlock confirmed with a nod.

"I bet this is a racial crime," Anderson said suddenly and everyone looked over to him wearing frowns.

"And what evidence have you seen to lead you to that frankly ridiculous conclusion?" Sherlock asked somewhat angrily.

"Well, he's Indian," Anderson said slowly.

"If your victim was Caucasian would you automatically suspect a negro?"

"Well, no –"

"Good, now shut up and stop inflicting your alarmingly wrong suspicions on the rest of us!" Sherlock snapped. "No, the motive isn't going to be obvious in this case, look at how the victim dresses; plain jeans, comfortable shirt and shoes, he isn't traditionally what you would expect from a young Indian man and there is no trace of any religious artefacts in the whole shop. If fact, if it were going to be a racial crime, Anderson, it would be because of these facts, but it isn't!"

"Okay, Sherlock, you've made your point," I said, attempting to keep him on topic because I knew how much Anderson worked him up. "How do you know that what happened to the victim started somewhere else?"

"Blood on his shoes and pants," Sherlock stated, after finally looking away from Anderson, whom he'd been glaring at. "Directional blood drops, the blood being most likely from his nose as he was made to walk back to his shop. There was a small amount of blood on the path out the front, but all you apes have trampled all over it, as you do!"

I looked across to Lestrade as Anderson quickly left the room as if to see if Sherlock was telling the truth or not.

"Now that I managed to get the idiot out of the way, we can actually have a decent conversation." Sherlock mumbled as he stood up straight again.

"Did you just make that up?" Lestrade accused angrily.

"No," Sherlock said, turning his angry expression towards Lestrade now. "Just in front of the door, a few drops of blood where the victim stopped to unlock the door. Nobody thought to look there because I assume that everyone thought that the man was abused here. Stupid mistake."

"Oh really?" asked Lestrade hotly.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Where is the evidence to suggest that the attack occurred entirely here?"

I saw Lestrade look around the room uncertainly before looking back to a satisfied Sherlock.

"Exactly, there isn't any." He said confidently. "Where, for example, is the cast off spray on the walls and ceiling? The lack of evidence is just as important, Lestrade, it tells us that the beating occurred elsewhere, a place I will find by tracing the blood trail, and trust me, there is going to be one. First though, I need to finish looking around here."

"Who found the body?" I asked Lestrade as Sherlock moved over to the counter.

"His wife," Lestrade told me sadly and I shook my head.

"Newlyweds?" I pondered looking back down to the victim and guessing that he was only in his mid-twenties.

"I would have said three months," Sherlock said before he disappeared down behind the counter. "Honeymoon in Paris."

Lestrade rolled his eyes before Anderson walked back in to stand beside him with a frown.

"He was right, sir," Anderson said begrudgingly. "I've made everyone else aware of it now –"

"No point now," Sherlock said frankly, still hidden behind the counter. "You could never use it as evidence in court. Nope, as a senior scene of crime officer that's a big mistake on your behalf."

Anderson glared in Sherlock's general direction. "I'm not the first person on the scene."

"No, but you are the first forensic person to arrive, Anderson." Sherlock said as he stood up to stare forcefully at the forensic investigator. "Isn't it one of your first duties to access the point of entry in case there is any significant data?"

"Lay off, Sherlock." I said warningly. "We're here as guests remember?"

"Dull," I heard him mutter as he walked around the room, the three of us watching him in silence. He walked to the opposite end of the store where he quickly opened a door before he finally came to stand beside us again.

"Thoughts on the case then," I asked curiously. "Can you talk us through it?"

"It wasn't a robbery," he begun in his usual quiet, thoughtful manner. "Nothing has been disturbed in the shop save the shelves at the entry where our victim collapsed when he first came back in. The till is predictably empty and the safe in the back room hasn't been touched. The victim's wedding ring is still on his finger, he has a gold chain around his neck and his phone, wallet and keys have all gone unnoticed in his trouser pockets.

"The blood on the pavement at the door, together with the stains on the victim's shoes and trousers plus the lack of blood on his hands suggest that he was not in his shop but somewhere out on the street when he was attacked. He had obviously closed the shop for the night and was about to walk home."

"Doesn't he live above us?" I asked him confused.

"No," Sherlock answered quickly. "Judging by the state of the walls, the ceiling and the fact that some of the windows have been boarded up upstairs, I would say that the flat is being renovated and he's been living elsewhere until the work had been finished. No, if someone had of been upstairs they would have heard the victim crying out in agony. I can't help but think that the attack wouldn't have happened if he hadn't had to walk home every night, last night included –"

"Oh come on," Anderson scoffed. "How could you possible know that he walks home?"

"His shoes – brand new, only a week or so old." Sherlock said quickly, pointing down to the victim's feet. "Comfortable, everyday shoes, that offer enough support to stand in them all day yet look at the soles, they're practically worn away already which meant he did a lot of walking in them. Now, why else could the soles become that worn in such a short period of time unless he walks to and from work?"

I saw Anderson shift uncomfortably as he glared at Sherlock, who looked up to the ceiling.

"I need to look upstairs," he said quietly.

"Why?" asked Lestrade with a confused frown.

"The front door was locked and barred shut from the inside by the small magazine rack, hence the reason why police had to force it open this morning when they arrived, so how did our murderer leave?" Sherlock asked with his eyebrows raised, but he didn't pause for an answer from any of us. "Our victim certainly couldn't have locked it, and the only windows in the room are at the front of the store and don't open and the back room doesn't have any windows or doors either, which is presumably why the victim kept his safe in there. The only other exit, therefore, is this one here that I would assume leads upstairs into the house and what do we all notice about it?"

Lestrade, Anderson and I all looked over to the door that Sherlock now stood beside it, giving it a quick tug that didn't open it.

"It's just your average door," Anderson said sulkily.

"I really wish you wouldn't voice your thoughts out loud, Anderson." Sherlock sighed.

"There's no lock," I said suddenly as I looked to the silver handle.

"Exactly," Sherlock said with a smile. "That must mean that the door locks from the other side, making a perfect escape route. John, help me break down the door."

"You can't just –"

"Be quiet, Anderson," Lestrade sighed wearily as he gave a small nod to me and I moved forward to Sherlock's side, Anderson shaking his head angrily.

Together we managed to kick in the not-very-sturdy door without causing too much mess and as I moved the bulk of the door to the side, Sherlock knelt down with his magnifying glass and began examining the steps very closely.

"Recent footmarks on the stairs which could have only come from our killer," he said quietly.

"How can you tell?"

"There was a bloody footprint over beside the body where I was standing; size eleven trainer," Sherlock explained quietly to me without looking up. "These footmarks are roughly the same size and shape."

"They could have belonged to our victim," Lestrade suggested. "Or even the builders who were renovating upstairs."

"Our victim has a men's size nine foot and his shoes are a completely different shape." Sherlock said shortly. "These marks are nothing like a workman's boot either, not to mention the fact that yesterday was Sunday and no workmen would be on a job on a Sunday and the marks themselves couldn't be in such pristine conditions if they had been left on Friday afternoon. They were undoubtedly left by the killer."

We followed Sherlock up the narrow staircase and along the dusty, half-finished corridor towards the back of the house where a single window was situated in the wall. Sherlock instantly converged on it with his magnifying glass to, I assumed, check for fingerprints. I watched him go over every inch of the window, frame and all, before he turned back to us smiling.

"Anderson, there are at least twenty-five usable fingerprints on that window, inside and out that could be from the killer. Concentrate your fingerprint powder on the ones around frame, the rest will most likely be contaminated by the workmen. Let me know when you have the results from the fingerprint department. C'mon, John,"

"Where are you going?" Anderson asked as Sherlock began to push past up.

"To follow the blood," he said without stopping and I exchanged a quick look with Lestrade before hurrying after him.

Author's note; It is actually quite fun to tease Anderson and Donovan; they really do bring it on themselves. Anyway, hopefully you enjoyed the chapter, and please, please, PLEASE let me know what you thought on Sherlock's deductions! You'll help me to become a better writer if you give me feedback. All I want to do is do these characters justice!